"Who is it?"
The woman laid her arm around the girl and drew her close and kissed her gently. Then she whispered two words in her ear.
With a scream, Lassie started to her feet. "Oh—no!—no!—no!"
Alva looked straight up at her where she stood there above her and smiled, steadily.
"No, no,—it can't be! I didn't hear right."
"Yes, you heard quite right."
The girl's hands shook violently; tears came fast pouring down her face. "But, Alva, he is—he can't—"
Tears filled the other's eyes, too, at that, and stole thickly out upon her cheeks. "I know, my dear child, but didn't I tell you how to me—to us—this life is only a small part of the whole?"
"Oh, but—but—oh, it's too horrible!" She sank down on the seat again and burst out sobbing.
"No, dear," Alva exclaimed, her voice suddenly firm, "not horrible, just that highest summit of life of which I spoke before—the point toward which I've lived, the point from which I shall live ever afterwards,—my point of infinite joy,—my all. For he is the man I love—have always loved—shall always love. Only, dear, don't you see?—he isn't a man as you understand the word; the love isn't even love as you understand love. It's all so different! So different!"